Bastille
by nonsequitur1416
Summary: AU. When a ragtag band of misfits become the leaders of the student patriots of the Revolution, they only meant to take down the tyrants behind the crown. They certainly didn't expect to fall in love; experience unspeakable tragedy - or to wake up in Modern Day England, for that matter. CHAPTER 6!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Confession: the plot bunny nipped me quite painfully in the head a few nights back. I couldn't sleep until I had this written out. The French Revolution is a huge chapter in history, and for Skins to be a part of that, however fleetingly? No words, my dears. **

**I've got huge plans for this fic, to name a few: Naomily; unrequited love; Naomily; time-travelling; Naomily; unspeakable tragedy; Naomily; Revolutionary-Naomi-Coping-With-Modern-Europe-And-Haunting-Pasts; Naomily. Phew. I. Am. So. Excited. I'm writing this alongside my other fic, "Broken." You should go check that one out, too! Wee. **

**The entire Skins Cast is here, so no worries. And, I think I've dragged my author's note a little too long, AGAIN, so, forgive me. I'll leave you to it, then! Enjoy! Don't forget to leave me a review, a follow, or a fave if this one's worth it ;)**

* * *

_Septembre 17, 1788_

_La Glaciere, rue Croulebarb _

_Vitai lampada tradunt! They pass the torch of life!_

* * *

A line of cold sweat traced down his neck: he swiped the back of his hand across his nape and chanced a glance around him. The boulevard was bare, save for a handful of juveniles avoiding their afternoon tutelage. He grit his teeth, admonishing himself for his flagrant display of agitated anxiety. His fingers smoothed the creases of his text—he'd been reading the same line over and over, the words searing into the forefront of his thoughts; an indecipherable cacophony of insidious intent.

He wrung his hands together, frightened witless at the thought of being chanced upon and caught unawares. Cursing himself inwardly for being a gormless coward despite his discretions, he drew a kerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his brow.

He gave a start, then.

There were eyes upon him.

A figure behind him.

He knew this much without looking. His fingers twitched in his pocket; there was no pistol on his holsters to rely on. He bent forward and gripped his cane, his body tensing, muscles stretched taut at the shoulder. He turned, then, cautiously.

And swore.

"I could've killed you!" He yelped, winded. He sank back against the bench and let the cane clatter on the ground at his feet. She knelt down and picked it up.

"How incredibly considerate of you, then," her lips curled. "Imagine having to explain that to the police."

"That I killed you out of fright?" he snorted in derision. "Highly unlikely. I would've gotten over the shock and dumped your body in the Canal Saint-Martin."

She smiled at him, albeit thinly. "Awfully kind of you, I'm sure."

He doffed his beret and winked, "You will never find a more gracious bourgeois. The likes of me have been eradicated alongside the Jacobins, kith and kin of a noble race—gentlemen of the west."

She shrugged, "A worthy sacrifice." She held aloft a wicker basket and looked at him meaningfully. He glanced along the street before jumping to his feet. He proffered her his arm; she looked at him skeptically.

"It would seem more natural," he smiled, lifting her arm and tucking it into the crook of his own. He reached across her and slung his book bag over a shoulder.

They made off down the boulevard, shoes clattering against the cobbles, looking—for all the world—like a pair of bosom friends engaged in lively conversation.

Yet no one passed them by near enough to tell the difference between coherent speech and the senseless blather of the communally agitated: they who speak for the sake of speaking and maintaining a sufficient ruse for wary eyes.

* * *

They paused down a line of apartments down the Rue des Reculettes.

He drew her closer, gripping her elbow tightly in his fingers.

"Don't look back, don't look uneasy," he stepped back, grinning widely. Something flickered in his eyes, and she knew he was frightened. He tipped his head and winked, "Eyes on me, _cherie. _Only on me."

He took her hands and led her down a flight of stone steps to their right. In the cold gloom, he stretched out a hand, feeling about the brick walls. His hand brushed a brass knob and he pulled it open. It revealed a passage, six feet broad and five feet high, such that they had to stoop to enter. It emptied into a circular courtyard, a veritable cul-de-sac. He pulled her through and ran up the steps of the fifth building on the far right, its white-washed walls choked with ivy.

She was winded and sorely out of breath.

She clutched a stitch at her side, "There are—"

He spun around and clapped a hand to her mouth. "The walls have ears," he hissed. "And the high sills have eyes that do naught but watch all day." She glanced up at the windows of the building nearest theirs. He wrenched her arm, twisting her towards his body. "Don't," he warned, his mouth warm against her ear. He didn't release her until they were safely inside the confines of the apartment.

She squirmed in his arms and he loosed his grip. He ran ahead, towards the stairs, and looked up, scanning the flights for unwanted occupants. Finding none, he beckoned for her to follow him. On the third landing, he turned to his immediate right and fumbled in his pockets for the keys to his room. He pushed her in and staggered back against the door.

She pushed the hair out of her face, panting heavily. "Well," she said wryly. "That was breathtakingly exciting. You certainly know how to keep a lady on her feet."

He grinned tiredly, "And up at night."

He made his way over to her and proceeded to clear the table in his study. She looked around his room—it was modestly small, almost humbly so. It was bare, save for a wash stand next to a single bed in the corner. There was a fire place in the opposite wall, the ashes of its last fire cold on the grate. A window overlooking a canal hung over the sink, the cupboards underneath it were moldy and rotting.

She bit her lip, "Bit lonely here, isn't it?"

His head poked out from the edge of the wall, "What?" She shrugged half-heartedly. "I just can't imagine living here alone."

"Get used to it then," he muttered. "Home, for you and me, for the next couple of weeks."

"Come," he called out to her. She walked over to the bare table and lifted the basket onto it. They gazed at each other silently.

"Well?" his face broke into a smile. Her lips curled, amused. "Appreciate all the effort I took to bring you this."

She pulled off the top blanket and produced several wrapped packages of cured meat. "Dinner solved for the next three days, then," he chuckled. She ignored him and pulled out packet after packet, bottle after bottle, eventually producing a loaf of bread.

She slid it across the table towards him. He raised a brow, bemused. "Do you have jam in their somewhere? Or a bread knife to hack it with, at the very least?"

She rolled her eyes bemusedly, "Tear into it like a man."

He rolled it in his fingers thoughtfully before plunging his fingers into its crusty exterior. He tore into it, pulling it apart violently, letting it flake on the table before him.

"Damn!" he swore loudly, bringing his injured fingers to his lips instinctively: a fine line of blood traced down his wrist from a slit on his middle finger. "Careful, now," she clucked her tongue reproachfully.

"You'll spoil it," she reached across him and drew the loaf towards her. "I apologize for ruining it in advance, then," he muttered scathingly. She smiled briefly and held the loaf aloft.

"Now," she whispered, frustrated. "How to—?"

She brought the loaf down on the edge of the table with a dull thud. She banged it hard, again and again until something clattered to the floor in the thin, metallic tell-tale clink of steel against cement. His brows creased together as he bent forward to take it.

"Not entirely classy, is it?"

"If it does its job well enough, there's no reason to complain, is there?"

He turned the saber over in his hands—it was thin and lightweight; it would serve its purpose well enough. He mimed a parry and jabbed forward, towards her. She caught his wrist nimbly and twisted the wrong way; he cried out and the blade dropped to the floor.

"Well played," he mumbled through gritted teeth. She smiled beatifically at him in response. He frowned a little, "What about you?"

She quirked a brow at him, "What are you going on about?"

"I can't leave you unarmed! This is all well and good, and I thank you—" he stooped to pick the blade up, then, "—But you can't go out there without anything and expect me to—"

She pressed her thumb against his lips to silence him. He stilled underneath her touch, his shoulders rising and falling to match the rhythm of her breathing. "I'll be alright," she winked once; a playful, assuring gesture.

She drew back from him and lifted her leg onto the edge of the table. Slowly, she reached down and slid her dress upward, letting the fabric slide down mid-thigh. He watched mutely as the garment caught on a belt strapped a few inches above the knee.

"Classy," his brows lifted appreciatively.

"I am of a similar opinion, yes," she unbuckled the leather and hefted it onto the table. A loaded pistol clattered on the wood top, its steel barrel glinting ominously in the fading light.

"And what of Frederic?" he found himself asking, "And Jeanneau?"

"I chanced upon them before I came to you. The barracks are well stocked; I can promise this much."

He nodded; his fingers pinched the bridge of his nose concernedly. "I've a feeling Rousseau knows," he muttered bitterly. "They're drawing us out. He holds the fabric of us in his hands; fingers searching for the seams, pulling us apart until we come undone."

"It could be a tactic," she suggested hopefully. "A well constructed ruse designed to catch you off-guard, make you doubt."

"If it is, then he's succeeding," he growled. She laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder, "Don't, Jacques. We need you now, more than ever. A few more days and we can take Paris! And then, think—Versailles!"

Her enthusiasm was electric; it burned him. He turned away from her, his expression darkening, "But, the people—"

"The people!" she exclaimed incredulously, "The people are aflame, Jacques. They need a fresh blast from the bellows, but by then, they'll be a roaring flame. Versailles will fall: through blows and brimstone." He managed a smile, a genuine quirk of his lips stretching across his features.

He took her hand in his, "Everything I'll ever need: aren't you, Noemi?"

She rumpled his hair affectionately, "Don't get any ideas now. I don't belong in a kitchen."

"I don't doubt that," he chuckled warmly. Her brows crumpled together, then; he pulled back to peer at her closely. "What's wrong?"

"I remembered," she whispered, her frown deepening. "David, he gave me something before I left the apartment this morning. He was in tears," she drew a letter from her pocket and handed it to him.

"David?" he asked sharply, rising to his feet. "David of the British Commissary?"

"Fresh from the enemy barracks," she said confusedly. He tore open the top flap and nearly crumpled the parchment in his haste to read it. His eyes scanned the text for a good thirty seconds at least, until—

The letter slipped from his fingers, curling out and away from him, settling on the ground at her feet. She did not need to read it to know what it said.

"They killed her. Elizabeth's dead," he whispered, his hands coming up to grasp the hair on his head. Her fingers curled into tight balls at her side, but she held her tongue. She found herself echoing his words long moments later, her voice sounding strangely hollow.

_"Dead."_

* * *

**Try to guess who's who from our Cast, because, yes, those are their names in legitimate French! Leave your guesses in a review ;) I'm taking language lessons, and I'm taking up Revolutionary France this sem, so this should be interesting. How did you feel about this one? Let me know. **

**Chapter Two will be up soon, but reviews will make me write faster. Go on. Make my day. Hihi. **_***nudges reader towards button***_** Love you, guys. Follow me on Twitter for updates!**

**xxGuppy**


	2. Chapter 2

_September 29, 1788_

_Aperture 1735, Place Saint-Michel_

_Je suis tombe par terre / C'est la faute a Rousseau_

_I have fallen down / It's the fault of Rousseau_

* * *

The days passed like amber through a sieve—slow, inconsequential and uneventful. On the fifteenth day of their invariable lethargy, Jacques drew a pistol from the recesses of his overcoat and rammed it into the temple of a student.

The room rose in uproar; chairs were swept back, tables pulled aside. Men ran forward, ringing them, hemming them in, reluctant to pull them apart. The tension in the air crackled to a feverish pitch, and in minutes, the only audible sound in the room was that of Jacques' heavy, labored breathing. The student, Prouvaire, lay dazed and immobile upon the floor: his arms had come up to shield his face instinctually.

"Up! Don't be worthless, up!" Jacques screamed, upending a table in his fit of delirium. "If they catch you unawares, if they get you on your back—" he stooped and whispered, his face perilously close to the latter's. "They won't think twice, they won't show you mercy. They will end you, Prouvaire! You are but a lone tongue of flame in a veritable furnace. If they extinguish your light, it is no great loss, I can assure you. They will kill you! You fool! Like—" he cocked the pistol and released the lock, sliding his thumb over the catch.

He pressed the end of the steel barrel against Prouvaire's throat, "—So."

A hand gripped his wrist tightly and wrenched it away. "Be sensible, Jacques. We'll need all the help we can get; it wouldn't do to 'extinguish' any more hands outside the confines of systematic combat _against _our enemies. Don't start an insurgence before we actually get around to fulfilling our purpose." Frederic smiled apologetically at the figure lying prone at his feet, quivering in fear.

"Although in hindsight, you probably shouldn't have let him get you like that."

Jacques grimaced tersely. "My sincerest apologies; I just thought it wouldn't do to have so many of you so lax when we're just months away from bringing the Monarchy down. No one will contest me, however, when I say that by simulation standard, it was, perhaps, overtly exaggerated. I cry your pardon." He offered a hand and pulled Prouvaire to his feet.

"_You inimitably pathetic, miserable excuse for a human!" _Jacques stared with dubiety at the figure advancing towards him: a beret swept her fair hair up and tucked it away from sight. She was dressed in the loose cotton trousers and white blouse so particular to the men who studied law in the upper districts. She was indistinguishable; she was not, could not be—

"Noemi," he said, placating, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "You _idiot," _she snarled, jabbing a finger in his chest. "Don't make sport out of this! Don't act up like this; you have no _right _to jeopardize everything we've worked so hard to achieve."

He had the decency to look properly ashamed of himself and took a step back from her, "I was only t—"

"I couldn't care less," she hissed. "Lafayette and Troubadour were nearly screaming their heads off about you to me, just now! I don't need this _today,_ Jacques. Not today." She said, exasperated. His lips tightened into a hard line. "Don't do this again." He nodded.

She turned about and met the hardened gazes of the men around them, "Today, on the rue Saint-Severin, all of Paris will open their shutters, step out of their chaises, lean out of gutters, to listen to _you. _They need a reason to fight for everything they hold dear—help them remember it. Help them understand why their blood runs hot and heavy and thick in their veins when they see Versailles from their roofs. Help them see that they are _not _bound any longer; they are angry. Why is that?"

She swung herself onto the nearest table with determined fervor, "_I will not rest until Versailles lies trampled underneath your feet, free for your taking._"

"Freedom!" they shouted back at her, raising their pistols and sabers. "They will throw you in prisons, in cellars, and slit your throats on the guillotine—but even so! What is rightfully yours, you cannot be denied: fight for your right to hold all that is dear to you, though it be a red day, a sword day, ere the sun rises!"

"You were not born slaves. A king sits on the throne, but we don't need him. We don't need a tyrant on the forefront! A treacherous, vile snake—his wife is no different! People die everyday, fighting for what they believe in—the battle we wage is no different," she raised a long, red kerchief held tightly in her fist; a flame flickered in her eyes, bright and searing. _"_There will be a time to weep, and a time to rejoice; but today," she doffed her beret and swung it over her head, her fair hair flowing, fluttering, just above her shoulders. "Today is a revolution, a rebellion, an insurgence, a mutiny; and rightly so! There is no room for qualms, or fear, or misgiving. Today, you are born anew: _Vive la France! Vive la Nation!"_

The boulevard echoed with the cries of the revolution; the din of their defiance ringing loud and clear across the cobblestones.

* * *

Jeanneau pushed his way past the crowd, a letter clutched tightly in his bony fist. Frederic spotted him amidst the throng and hauled him onto the sidewalk. "I thank you," he gasped breathlessly. "I was nearly caught by emissaries. I dare say, however, that it was entirely worth it." Frederic chewed on his lip for a good long while, holding his gaze steadily.

"Have _they_ seen this?" he asked quietly, gesturing at the envelope clutched tightly in the latter's fist. Jeanneau frowned, his brows creasing together. "To the extent of my knowledge: no. However, if they somehow already _knew, _I wouldn't be surprised." He chuckled darkly, "It's almost as if they have a correspondence—"

Frederic lunged forward and ripped the letter from his fist. "They are many things," he whispered, pale and tight-lipped. "But they are not traitors."

"What does it say?" Jeanneau asked, curious and fearful in equal measure. Frederic scanned the lines of text briefly before lowering the parchment; his face was inscrutable and devoid of emotion.

"They're burying her today, Jean. _ Today." _He crumpled the letter tightly in his fist, ignoring Jeanneau's cry of protest. He leaned over the canal and peered into its murky depths before turning back, "They can't know. Not now, not today. There's too much at stake, and they can't afford to be distracted. Swear to me you'll hold your tongue until I ask you to loose it." He flung a hand out; something silver flashed in the air and struck Jeanneau squarely on the forehead.

"For your trouble, and your loyalty." He stooped and palmed a six-sous piece—Jeanneau nodded mutely: Frederic sighed, assuaged, and tossed the ball of parchment into the water; watching as it uncurled and sank, the ink bleeding through the paper.

* * *

A formidable crowd had swelled to epic proportions along the rue Saint-Severin, choking the sidewalks and curbs, curling about the cul-de-sac on the farther end of the boulevard. Shutters and curtains were flung aside from windows high above the street, curious eyes peering down at the Revolution. They had begun rallying hours ago, crying words of passionate, patriotic ardor. Before them stood the New Army; this much was clear, and they took pride in it.

Noemi stood atop a horse-less carriage in the middle of the street, the French flag tight in her grip. A fine drizzle of rain had begun and she swiped the back of her hand across her brow, along the smattering of moisture that had collected there.

She had swept her hair back into the confines of a beret; the sleeves of her white cotton blouse trailed freely from the elbows—she was tense, and it showed, clear as day. She fumbled with the drawstrings along her throat and blinked rainwater out of her eyes, "Tomorrow—" she faltered; not without reason.

She cleared her throat, and cried, louder, "Tomorrow, along the Seine; by the Canal Saint-Martin, your allegiance to the Monarchy fails—and you will pledge a new one, to the People of France!" The crowd responded with loud cries of assent; Noemi smiled, in spite of herself.

"'Paris is the natural and constituted centre of free France,' Danton once told me. 'Yes, it is the centre of light. When Paris shall perish there will no longer be a republic'—but we do not need a figurehead on the throne: we will _have_ his head, then, and _burn_ the throne for the entire world to see! And Versailles will fall, its ashes scattered beneath your willing feet."

The men cheered; a deep, growling, rumbling bass reverberating underneath the soles of her boots. She hefted the flag outward, towards them. She bent down quickly and swept a torch from Jacques and lit the end of the fabric in her hand. It flared quickly, despite its initial dampness—she stabbed it through a bayonet lying at her feet and raised it high.

_"Vive la France! Vive la France! Vive la France!" _

The people echoed her cry, each repetition louder than the last. Well pleased with herself, she grinned broadly, eyes scanning the veritable sea of faces before her.

She saw it, then.

A glitter of silver across the pavement—a bayonet; directed at—

She lunged forward, tearing headlong into the crowd: a single gunshot, loud and clear, and ringing. The masses flared up in confused panic. Jacques, with his longer strides and thicker arms, arrived faster. He tumbled into the hooded man, dressed in the black garb of the Enemies of the Revolution. They grappled on the ground, seeking supremacy. Not long after, Jacques managed to tear the bayonet from his grasp and with a resounding crack, brought it thundering down against the man's crown.

His movements ceased, his breath stilled.

Noemi swore under her breath and ran towards—he reached out for her, held out his arms so she could tumble into them—the figure lying prone on the pavement, a good ten feet away from him.

She was hunched over, a hand pressed tightly to her side, stemming the flow of blood. Noemi sank to her knees before her and gently touched her wrist. "Let me see it," she whispered softly, soothingly. She reached over and brushed back a sweep of hair from her face, where it clung obstinately to her wet skin. She looked up at her, then—and they froze, together, like that: Noemi, her blood pulsing hot and frantic underneath the skin at her throat; her fingers tangled in wet, mussed strands of dark hair contrasting heavily with her own; brilliantly golden eyes gazing at her raptly. It was those self-same eyes and the agony in them that brought her back, grounded her.

"Is there—anyone, at all—who knows—I can't—who are—?" she glanced around her, frantic.

_"Get away from her!" _A voice cried, somewhere to their far-off left. He bowled over Jacques in his haste to get to her; Noemi scrambled backward. His heavy, thickset brows knit together, in anger, and presumably, in confusion; they'd never seen him before.

"Who d—"

Jacques swept a hand over the man lying dead at his feet. "Keep away from her," he growled, stooping down and gently lifting her into his arms, cradling her head against his chest.

"Keep away!" he nearly screamed at the crowd ringing them; they parted for him and he disappeared in their midst. Jacques placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Unavoidable casualties," he murmured. "Rest easy, the people are not so easily frightened off."

She nodded, but he had misinterpreted her silence.

Her thoughts were elsewhere.

* * *

**A/N: Tomorrow is the beginning of my finals, and instead of revising, I am updating. Oh, the joy of living. But, it is so worth it because I honestly did not expect you, my dear readers, to respond quite so quickly **_**and **_**enthusiastically! So, give yourselves a hand for this inexplicably quick update. Hope you enjoyed this installment of Bastille—tell me how you felt about this one, yeah? ;)**

**CuriousBananas – Thank you! That's awfully sweet of you. :) Spot on guesswork, by the way! **

**Jaxicen – That's kind of you to say :) Rousseau will have to rear his head sometime later, though. I do hope I was able to provide you with satisfactory visuals in this one ;)**

**ImaginationIsMyEscape – Feed the withdrawal: I give you, the latest installment! ;)**

**Follow me on Twitter for updates! Go on and leave me a review, it'll make my day. Really. Oh, and make me update faster too, hihi. Totally win-win situation here, really. **

**(Oh my God, my finals. Oh, well.)**

**Xx Guppy**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I have much to apologize for in not updating as quickly as I promised; I'm sorry! I'm up to my brows in course work, I am drowning in a veritable sea of post-finals deadline requirements. But, because I love you all, I give you Chapter Three of Bastille! Thank you for the overwhelming reviews you sent for the last chapter, you made my sentimental-feels ache. :"**

**I reveal—in this installment—the brief, tragic tale of the beautiful enigma that is Effy. Enjoy.**

* * *

_October 19, 1788_

_Nom 632, Rue des Reculettes_

_Si Cesar m'avait donne la gloire et la guerre, je dirais an grand Cesar: reprends ton sceptre et ton char—J'aime mieux ma mere._

_If Caesar had given me glory and war, I would say to Caesar: Take thy scepter and car—I prefer my mother._

* * *

"Parry, then! To the left, you cur! Not there, you fool—like, _so!" _

Noemi laughed as she twisted her rapier sharply to the right and sent Jeanneau's saber clattering to the floor. _"Jobards," _he cursed himself angrily, stooping to pick up the fallen weapon. "You're no idiot, Jean," she chastised him gently. "You just need a little more control."

"You're being far too kind, Noemi," he grumbled half-heartedly. "I assure you, when the time comes, pray you never have to be near enough to another man to use one of these." She rapped his blade smartly with hers, "I'd rather you use one of these. I'd be more at ease." Jeanneau's gaze drifted downward, to the holster Noemi fingered carefully on her belt.

"A pistol won't save a man," he scoffed. She raised a brow, "No? Little sticks of steel won't do much good either, then."

"Come see!" Frederic burst through the doors of Jacques' apartment, swinging his bayonet over his head gleefully. "Rivoli has fallen! The _coqueurs _have retreated, and Jacques has planted a flag atop the barrack there! Rivoli is ours!"

Noemi and Jeanneau stood stock-still, eyes wide, mouth agape. She choked, "Ours? You held back the police? The _gendarme?" _Frederic was in a sorry state—his clothes were bloody and torn, his hair was mussed and disheveled, and he smelt of death and gunpowder and gore. He grinned widely, reaching behind him to sling the bayonet's leather loops over his back. "Etienne and Troubadour set off barrel after barrel of powder and tar at them; they had no time to light their cannons, much less get any closer than thirty feet. In the end, when their general died, all the rest turned tail and fled!"

Noemi looked troubled, "It could be a ruse, Frederic, did the thought not occur to you? They could be amassing a larger resistance force, even as we speak. A false victory, if you will. If they succeed in lulling you all to a false sense of complacency—"

"They won't," Frederic said confidently. "Jacques is fortifying the banks, right now. They won't take us by surprise, they'd have to be as silent as death." Jeanneau smiled, comforted. "They're a huge army of blundering, bumbling, blubbering idiots."

Noemi's lip curled amusedly, "Even so." Frederic looked uncomfortable then, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. "What is it?" Noemi asked perplexedly; he looked up and cleared his throat. "Noemi, I've been keeping something from you and Jacques."

Her brows drew together, "Financing, you mean?" He shook his head seriously, "Swear on your life you won't give me up." She glanced at Jeanneau who had turned grey in pallor; he looked about as comfortable as she felt. She turned back to Frederic and nodded.

"I swear it," she promised. Frederic scuffed his boots against the floor, "We've been maintaining contact with the British Commissary for months, now. Before they crossed the border, a few of the soldiers were my friends—I've kept in touch with them ever since. My godfather is a Captain on the seventh force of the English League; six months ago, he celebrated his fortieth and invited me, despite the risks. I crossed the border on the outskirts of Bordeaux, where they hold the State meetings. You know the place?"

"Yes," she toyed with the clasp at her chest and gestured with her other hand for him to continue. "It was wonderful. I found myself sincerely wondering why it was our two factions couldn't get along."

She frowned, "If they had known you were French, they would have tied you to a post and gunned you down. They would've sent your head back to us in a sack, just to spite us."

His fingers went up to his throat instinctually, "Maybe so. But that night, Colonel Burke of the First League—you know him?—He was there, he was the guest of honor. He was my godfather's dearest friend. He brought his daughter along with him, Elizabeth."

He stopped then, and grew silent. Her brows shot up incredulously at the name.

_Elizabeth Burke? _

She chanced a look at Jeanneau who seemed to be extremely interested at a spot on the floor. "My world was tethered to this being, Noemi. She was the axis my soul revolved upon. I could not remember what the world was like before she came into my life. I wrote to her every week, as often as I could spare it without being caught. David Blood, a rogue emissary, was kind enough to act as courier between us."

Her mouth fell open in shock. _David Blood. _Our _David Blood. Jacques' Elizabeth, and David. David Blood._

"A month ago, she was caught near the border by soldiers of her father's own faction. The letter was still on her, so they confiscated it. They questioned her at High Court, but she refused to give a statement or deny the accusations thrown at her. She was convicted of treason, then: at dawn the following morning, they sentenced her to death by firing squad. Her father himself signed the papers sanctioning her demise." His throat seemed to tighten at the words, and she realized with a start that he was blinking back tears. Her heart slipped lower, down into her stomach, and settled into a tight knot. Jacques had received a lengthy note explaining the details of her death; she herself had taken the letter from—

"David sent me a letter a week after that. I wanted to go to her funeral—but." He shrugged half-heartedly and gripped the back of the chair tightly. "Jeanneau's known for awhile. I'm sorry I kept it from you and Jacques for so long."

Noemi laid a hand over his comfortingly, "There's no reason for you to apologize. But, Frederic—I think it would better if you didn't speak of this to Jacques." Frederic looked confused, "Why not? He deserves to know. I had no right keeping it from him in the first place."

"He's dealing with a lot, Frederic. Perhaps now would not be a sensible time to ply him with even more trouble—you know how he feels about the red coats." _And Elizabeth, _she thought wryly. _But you don't know that, now, do you?_

"Right," he muttered bemusedly. "Anyway, they're waiting for you down at the barracks. We've tarried long enough, I think. It was mostly my fault, though."

"I'm sure Troubadour can overlook a few transgressions if you ask nicely," she winked playfully, injecting humor into the room at large, already thick with tension. Jeanneau clapped her on the back, "Off we go, then."

* * *

_Southern Barrack, Rue de Rivoli_

* * *

"We can seal this portion off," he swiped a finger across the map and jabbed at a miniscule red point close to Noemi's hand. "Rue Jean Beausire?" she wondered aloud. His brow furrowed, "Why not? It's closed off. If we secure it, that'll bring us even nearer to Bastille—they'll have no other option but to meet us head-on."

"Exactly," she argued plaintively. "That leaves us with a single opening, entrance _and _exit. If they outnumber us, we'll be trapped like the Spartans at Thermopylae."

"But think of the advantages! If we _do _succeed, that'll bring us closer to the prison walls. We'll round Rue de la Roquette and hem them in; they'll have no chances of escaping, whatsoever. Its stone walls will fall and Louis will know that his throne is no longer the stronghold of the monarchs. He will quake in his boots—let him hear our roars from Versailles!" He turned to the crowd of men, then and bellowed loudly; the men cheered in response. Noemi looked unconvinced, "Don't underestimate the King, Jacques. A cornered animal is a dangerous animal. You of all people should know this!"

He took her hand gently in his, "Have faith in me. What little semblance of faith you still possess, lend it to me, and I swear it will flourish." She touched his cheek affectionately, "There is no doubt in my heart that—"

An explosion blew apart the street outside and sent the rafters quaking in their supports. The building groaned under the strain and bits of the roof flaked off. There was a ringing in Noemi's ears that refused to abate, and she stayed like that for quite awhile—crouching by the table, motionless and dazed. Jacques recovered faster: he grabbed a pistol from the chair beside him and rammed it into his holster. He slung the bayonet over his shoulder and ran out the door, screaming into the air, rallying people to him. Noemi watched him uncomprehendingly.

Finally, she managed to stagger to the door. She cocked the pistol and rattled her pocket for bullets. Satisfied, she ran out to meet the King's pawns head on.

The men had taken their places behind the barracks, their canons and bayonets planted at irregular intervals over the wall and in crevices situated along it. Etienne ran past her, a frenzied blur of coal-black—she reached out and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. He thrashed in her grasp, nearly nicking her lip. "Etienne!" she growled angrily. There was a metallic taste in her mouth, and her ears rang painfully every time she opened her mouth to speak.

"Tell LaFayette to hold fire until we're sure the _coquers _brought canons too." Etienne mumbled a quick word of assent and sped off down the road. Jacques was screaming at the soldiers; barking loud, insolent curses at the King's men from his perch atop the barrier. She barely had time to climb along the ridge to stand beside him when she heard the tell-tale clash of steel striking steel: she knew then that the general-in-charge had slapped his blade against a canon.

"_Take aim! Fire!" _There was a sound like a thousand bat-wings breaking and Noemi was swept off her feet from the force of the blast. She jumped to her feet and ran up the ridge with nimble feet. "Today, you die in the name of France!" she screamed at them.

_"Vive la France! Viva la France!"_ One of the soldiers fired a bullet in her direction which she promptly managed to avoid. She fired three shots into his chest in retaliation: he slipped off his horse and landed on the ground with a sickening crunch. "_Vive la France!" _she screamed, exhilarated. She reloaded her pistol and fired again at the men attempting to scale the barracks—they slid to a heap at the foot of the pile, their blood slipping into the grooves and crevices of the cobblestone street.

"Noemi!" she turned to her right; Jacques' mouth was open in evident horror. Fast as lightning, he held aloft his pistol and fired straight at her.

She closed her eyes instinctually, but—the bullet sailed past her and embedded itself in the body of a soldier who was about to run her through with a saber clutched tightly in his hand. He fell at her feet and she grinned at him gratefully.

He paid dearly for his moment of heroism, however.

Noemi screamed as a soldier caught him unawares; flying at him, bayonet flashing. The butt of the gun cracked against his skull and Jacques sagged forward against the man, losing consciousness rapidly. The soldier shot him twice in the backs of his knees, and Noemi cried out for him.

"I've got him!" he called out to the others gleefully. "No, you don't," she snarled venomously, hatred pulsing hot and heavy through her veins. She hefted the pistol aloft and aimed for the soldier's head—it went off and the man fell forward over Jacques. She ran towards him, her legs renting the ground beneath her feet with wide, tearing strides.

"Jacques!" she cried, dropping to her knees before him. She pulled him to her and cradled his head in her lap. "Retreat!" she screamed at the revolutionaries who had stopped briefly to gape at them in horror.

"Retreat!"

* * *

**A/N: The plot thickens! Sorry for the cliffhanger; I can assure you the next chapter will be worth it, however. As most of you will have probably noticed, our other dear isn't here yet. I promise you this, however—She'll show up very, very soon. And by soon, I mean the next chapter.**

**So let me know what you thought about this chapter, and I promise an update quicker than you can say, 'Holy-Fuck-Was-That-A-Pumpkin?'**

**Love you guys, really. **

**X Guppy**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews, follows and favs, you guys. Hihi. Glad to know you guys like things so far. And to my new Twitter buddies! Thanks for the mentions and stuff :") You guys are so sweet! Season Seven is so near, oh my God. I'm dying. If you want my take on pre-Season Seven and all the shit that goes down before it airs, read my other fic, Broken. ;) **

**I apologize whole-heartedly for this late update. My thesis defense is this week,****and I've been stressing so hard the whole month trying to tie up loose ends before the semester ends. BUT. I hope this long chapter makes up for all the time I've spent apart from you guyyys. **

**It is with great pride that I introduce your long-awaited sweetheart. Don't play coy; I know you know who it is. :")**

* * *

_October 20, 1788_

_Aperture 1735, Place Saint-Michel_

_Jamais honteux n'eut belle amie._

_Faint heart never won fair lady._

* * *

She lunged at him and grasped him by the collar of his blouse, _"Don't! _He said he's had enough, let him _be!"_ The physician, Garvais, trembled from head to foot. He hastily withdrew his hand, bloodied from handling the swathes of bandages concealing Jacques' knees.

"My sincerest apologies, _mademoiselle; _I only meant to assess the extent of –"

She waved a dismissive hand and gave him a little shove, "Sticking needles where they aren't wanted, much less needed, never did anyone any good, _m'sieur. _I know you have his best interests at heart; however, I don't think he appreciates the effort."

Jacques grimaced weakly from the cot, his cheeks gray and drawn. "My heartfelt thanks to you nonetheless, _m'sieur _Garvais. My head feels better, rest easy knowing you've achieved that much." Garvais' lip trembled, he passed a kerchief over the sweat covering his brow. "Yes, yes of course. However, there is also the matter of infection, which I fear."

Noemi's brows drew together in the middle, "What does he require that you cannot provide? If it's iodine you seek, then—" He shook his head thoughtfully, "If you could find a saline-hydroxide solution, then p'raps something might be done."

Frederic scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest, "We aren't chemists, nor do we possess the knowledge and the resources required to procure that which you seek. Also, if Noemi were caught by Enemies of the Revolution, they'd sooner lop her head off and send it back to us in a bag than give her a fair trial."

"Would an apothecary carry a reserve?" Noemi asked concernedly.

"I would imagine so. Yes."

She glanced at Frederic and touched his wrist gently, "If it saves him, I'd be more than willing to go." He wrenched his arm away violently, "I won't have you risking your life, Noemi. Your life is worth a thousand of mine. The men need you."

"_They_ know you," she chastised. "They'll recognize you and riddle you with bullets before you so much as inquire about the availability of the solution." She reached across him and drew a leather cape across her shoulders, fitting the clasp snuggly against her throat.

"I swear on my life to be very, _very _discreet."

* * *

She crouched behind a stack of crates beside the alley, chancing glances every now and then at the _gendarmes _and _coquers _lining the sidewalk. The boulevard stretched before her, rounding a cul-de-sac then curling in on itself to connect to the main road to the left, and branching out to another highway to the right. She turned on her heel resolutely and headed south, to her immediate right, her shoes clacking uncomfortably loud against the slick cobblestone.

An urchin ran past her and she reached out to grab him by the scruff of his stiff, starched collar. "Let me go!" he thrashed vehemently, beating his fists wildly against thin air. "Let me go or I'll tell the inspector!" She fumbled behind her neck and let the hood fall back, just a bit, to show him the fringe of her fair hair. He stilled immediately and stared at her, mouth agape.

"Noemi! What brings you uptown?"

"An apothecary, quickly," she said breathlessly. "Do you know where the nearest one is?" He frowned, and bit his lip thoughtfully. "The one up in rue Lachamere, but that's about ten miles from here."

"It doesn't matter now," she shook her head, pushing past him. "Jacques was wounded, Tremain. And only Heaven knows if he can walk again." He trailed a ways behind her, hands deep in his pockets. "Do you need to hurry, _cherie?" _She glanced at him and bit her cheek, "Quite. What've you got that's fast and efficient?"

He grinned at her and ran ahead, "Wait for me at the crest of the hill, _cherie! _I've got just the thing."

* * *

She stepped down from the hansom cab and accepted a hand from Tremain, who tucked his collar a little tighter around his chin. "Careful now, _cherie," _he whispered. "You have friends—and enemies, here—in equal measure." She smiled at him and pulled the cape a little tighter about her shoulders.

"I'll keep that in mind, then," she nudged him gently. "Get along with you; if it escalates into a full-on ramble, I'll let you know." He doffed his beret at her and clucked his tongue softly. The horses started and he ran beside the cab, swinging himself up one-handedly onto the driver's seat. Noemi turned back and regarded the structure before her. It was imposing; gray slate and red brick heaped haphazardly on top of the other. An awning stretched over the double paneled glass windows, multicolored bottles and phials lining the dusty shelves outside the shop.

She pushed open the door cautiously, wincing as a little bell tinkled as she did. The door creaked in its hinges—a head poked out from behind the counter and regarded her with curiosity. "Good day, then, love. Are you looking for anything in particular? Powdered lime root for nightmares? Salinase and iodine for cuts and bruises? P'raps, a peroxide solution for your lovely locks?" Noemi stepped further in and threw her hood back. A candle flickering on the countertop threw her features into relief and the woman gasped.

"The Revolution, then. The student patriot, Noemi, wasn't it?" the woman beamed, her cheekbones sharp in the faint light. "We listened to your speech that day at the Saint-Michel, you moved me. My husband—"

"Please," Noemi began breathlessly, striding forward to clutch the edge of the counter. "I need a saline-hydroxide solution immediately. A good friend of mine is grievously injured; the physician fears for his life if he doesn't have a good dose on him to keep the infection at bay." The woman paled, the color draining from her cheeks. "The _gendarmes _bought the last crate, love," she said softly, hesitantly. "They've reserved stock for the next six months. We get the solutions up in Neuilly and Provence; they're not easy to procure."

Noemi pulled her pockets inside out and set a pouch against the polished wood. She tipped it over and watched as the woman's mouth fell open—a handful of _louis _spilled across the countertop. Noemi reached over and flipped a coin with a thumb. It spun into the air, once, twice, before landing onto her palm again. She pulled out a billfold from the recesses of her overcoat and began peeling off note after note—forty francs altogether, not counting the_ louis _on the table. The woman's lip twitched; she pushed the coins back towards Noemi, turning away.

"Please, _cherie," _she whispered frantically, eyes darting fearfully about the room and out the window, as if soldiers would come pounding on the door at any minute. "Please don't cause any trouble. My family cannot afford to get caught up in all of this, please."

Noemi drew the strings across the pouch and pushed it back across the counter top, "Please, _madam! _My friend is _dying. _If you could only spare me a vial or two of the solution, I'd be on my way. Would the government mind the loss of a bottle or two? I'd pay you. Handsomely. Surely you cannot think to refuse such a generous sum in these capricious times."

The woman glanced back at her and ran a tongue across her bottom lip, moistening the cracked skin there. "Your pretty words will not save me, _mademoiselle. _If the Monarchy finds out I have helped you, they will take us." She clutched at her throat, wide-eyed. Noemi leaned over and took her trembling hands between hers. "I swear to you, no trouble shall haunt your door step. And if you save him now, I will forever be in your debt. Please, I wish to save you too. I wish to deliver France from the tyranny you so desperately seek to escape, the Monarchy that frightens you witless. Let me. Help me. Save _him." _

The woman hesitated: she stood stock-still, her hands wringing her apron tightly. She took a deep shuddering breath then, and—she crooked a finger, "Come, follow me." The woman pulled aside a curtain at the back of the shop and stepped back to let her pass. It led to a cellar, stacked floor to ceiling with boxes and crates, all nearly empty. She pushed a few aside with her foot, shaking bits of packing hay loose from her boots as she did so. The woman muttered to herself and stooped, pushing aside crates on the floor. "Ah!" she clucked her tongue softly and proceeded to grasp a brass ring cleverly concealed within the rugged cobbles of the flooring.

"Help me," she grunted softly at Noemi who bent down to grasp the other rung. They pulled, and with great effort, opened a holding cell about four feet in diameter. It was a vertical shaft with a rope ladder nailed to the wall. Noemi peered down concernedly, "And this is safe, is it?"

The woman rolled her eyes and brushed past her. She began lowering herself into the hole slowly, one hemp rung at a time. Noemi watched her slow progress, impatience flickering across her features at regular intervals. Finally, when the woman was a good ways down, she lowered herself as well.

"The door," the woman hissed in the darkness below her. "Close the latch before you go too far down." Noemi reached up and pulled the door shut. They were encased in darkness; stifling and oppressive. It descended on Noemi's chest and she drew a shaky breath with difficulty. "A light would not be amiss," she muttered to no one in particular. Almost instantly, a flame sparked into existence a ways below her, bathing the walls in a pale, yellow light. She released her grip on the ladder and glanced about her. They were at a stone corridor that seemed to go on forever; barrels and crates lined the walls here as well.

Noemi realized with a start that the barrels held tar and gunpowder, and the crates held sabers and bayonets. She turned back to the woman, horrified. "My son," the woman quickly explained. "He used to be a general in the Sixth Legion under Poulgie himself. He was discharged a few years back, however. He's kept everything down here since. Come."

The woman led her further down the corridor, lightly running her fingertips against the labels taped to the crates. "Have to keep them here," she looked back at Noemi who nodded in reply. "The government thinks they're being sold every last reserve, but they're fools who can't take their heads out of their bottoms long enough to see through the ruse."

They paused and the woman bent down, plucking a tiny box about the size of her fist from a pile of vials. "Here," she said genially, pressing the box towards Noemi. "That should last him three months. Use it sparingly—the stuff is potent. I must warn you also: in excess, it could poison him." Noemi repressed a shiver and thanked her profusely. She slipped it into her pocket and glanced about.

"Now, the exit," she ventured, trailing off. "Yes, of course," the woman frowned briefly. "Let's see. How do we—?" She turned about and held aloft her candle. "Oh!" she exclaimed happily, beckoning with a finger for Noemi to follow.

"Down here, the passage leads to the canal on the opposite end of the street. If anyone tries to block us off or give chase, we can use these tunnels to escape." Noemi smiled at her, "Clever of you, _madam. _Not many would deem it practical to construct a safety route."

The woman scoffed, "Please. Those who put off what they can do today only endanger themselves further. I have no reason to believe the government will be merciful, or just. And if Versailles falls, they'll take us down with them. I won't let that happen. Not to my family."

Noemi stepped forward and ran her fingers along the bare cement before her. They'd reached the end of the tunnel and it was a dead end. "Oh, dear," the woman muttered worriedly. "I could've sworn it was this way."

"It is," Noemi grinned, delighted. She pushed forward with her shoulder, her fingers finding purchase on the cracks at the rim of the hidden door. It swung open softly, and she had to squint to acclimatize her eyes with the sudden brightness of the outside world. They were on the other side of the street, out towards the back. The apothecary was a ways back, nestled behind the edge of the other street. The woman smiled up at her, "Good luck, Noemi. May you succeed in all your endeavors. And may God be good to your friend—after all the effort you've gone to give him that." She gestured at the package sticking out of Noemi's pocket.

"Thank you," Noemi said sincerely, her eyes bright against the glint of the sun. The woman frowned at her, "Wait." Noemi realized the woman wasn't disturbed by her, but rather at _something _behind _her. _She raised a brow and the woman's eyes flicked back to her face. "Sorry, I just…_Is that my husband?"_

Noemi turned about—coming towards them, his head bowed, was a tall, scruffy, thick-set man. He was hunched over, a wooden rack settled across his shoulders. Every now and then, he would stop and re-adjust the load. The woman's brows drew together, creasing the skin at her forehead.

"Why isn't he at home? Taking care of the younger? I told him he didn't have to bring _that _home today. It could've waited—_Robert! Robert!" _she cried, waving her arms over her head to get her husband's attention. She ran to him and proceeded to wipe the grime off his face with the edge of her apron. Though she couldn't hear what the woman was saying, Noemi was fairly sure she was reproaching her husband. _Lovingly_, she thought, judging by the look on her face and the slow, smile curling the corners of the man's mouth. Her features softened; _it must be wonderful_, she mused, _to have someone love you like that_.

The woman was gesturing now, back and forth, her arms waving about animatedly as she related a tale to her husband. Right then, in the middle of her story, his head snapped up, and the rack slipped off his shoulders and landed with a clatter to the ground. His hair was wild and matted. A fine stubble coated his chin, and in the shadow of the building by them, he looked almost—_livid. _Noemi's eyes widened in growing recognition, and her mouth fell open: it was the man's eyes that brought the memories rushing back, _hard and angry._

_ And frightened._

_The gunshot. The body. The girl._

_ That man._

_ That man. The girl. _

_ That man._

She gave a start and lurched, almost unconsciously, towards him. Her mouth opened and closed in shock, and she struggled to speak: to ask him—to inquire—to assure—

But he was striding quickly towards her. She'd never been frightenedof a full-on assault in her life as she preferred it that way, meeting them head-on. But there was something in the eyes of this man, in his raw anger and—_he would never admit, but she _knew_—_fear, that unsettled her, and she found her knees shaking as he neared her.

She braced for impact, but it never came. He strode right past her, past the apothecary, and onto the main road. She watched him, thunderstruck. His wife's cries bounded across the street, but she paid them no heed.

Compelled by a force she could not fully comprehend, she gave chase.

* * *

He slowed to a stop, panting heavily. She followed him down six boulevards before he slowed to a stop just outside the post office. She sagged against the brick wall, her breath coming in short bursts—in gasps and in hitches. She eyed him warily, but he made no move to leave.

She staggered to her feet and stumbled towards him. "Please," she gasped. "I just wanted to know—to inquire—if I might—" He glared at her, his gaze boring deep into her.

"You've no right to ask after her," he snarled. "You're just as responsible for her misfortune as the Enemies are. You're no better than them!" She flinched, "I know, _m'sieur. _I have come to atone for my misdeeds. But I am not fully accountable!" She was desperate now, pleading with him to understand.

"It was a rally, she was responsible for herself! Curiosity may have roused her, but she came to us of her own volition. However—" she cut across his retort—"But I _need _to ask after her, _m'sieur. _In the past three months alone, I've lost thirty of my dearest friends at the hands of the Monarchy, and their pawns, the _gendarmes._ _M'sieur, _forgive this wretched creature, but I need to know, for the sake of my sanity and for the well-being of the concerned, whether or not I've played a role in destroying another human's life because of our cause. I feel the blood of my friends dripping down my fingertips, even as we speak. I hold myself accountable for their fate."

She folded in on herself, and tears sprang to her eyes. "Have I ruined her, too?" He regarded her quietly, his jaw clenched. The minutes stretched uncomfortably—he took a step forward, then; such that he towered over her almost comically.

"If she had died, I would have pursued you to Carthage to tear you limb from limb. Your cause is noble, that much I can grant. But the danger lies in its patronization; therefore it is something I cannot sanction. Rest easy, then, knowing she will live. But know this," he bent down so that they were level, his face so close to hers their noses touched. His eyes were dark, almost mad.

"If you ever come near my family again, I'll kill you."

* * *

"_Madness, _Noemi! _Madness!" _Jeanneau hissed fearfully. "I do not know, Noemi, whether you value your life enough to_ want _to preserve it, but _I _do. _ I _want to go home, and feed on a bowl of Marie's _bouill_—"

"Hush," she waved at him to be quiet. She sank further down against the brick wall, "He's leaving now. You think the wife's in there?" He frowned at her, "How should I know? Noemi, if he sees you, I fear for your li—" She wagged a finger at him playfully, "He won't. Therefore, we'll be fine." Jeanneau peered carefully over the top of Noemi's head, "_Noemi! Noemi he's taken a cab!" _Noemi scrambled forward and caught Robert climbing into a black hansom; it clattered noisily down the street. She released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding; Jeanneau nudged her gently.

"What now?" he asked softly. She glanced at him and smiled, "Let me speak to his wife; she can help provide supplies for the Revolution." Jeanneau looked her over skeptically, "You're quite sure that's all there is to it?"

"Quite."

The bell over the door tinkled softly as Jeanneau held it open for Noemi. He glanced about the apothecary curiously, "How peculiar." He bent to examine a withered root suspended in a deep green solution. "What sort of assistance can she provide?"

She took him by the collar of his blouse and steered him away from a metal rack stacked with crystal vials. "Ammunition and first aid. That sort of thing. Unfortunately, her husband doesn't want her dealing with us any longer." He took her by the wrist concernedly, "Noemi, maybe we _shouldn't _be involving them at all. They've got every right in the world to choose _not _to patronize the Revolution. This isn't their war!" She turned around sharply and clipped him in the jaw, "Of course this is their war! They belong to this country, don't they?"

She moved past him and leaned against the countertop, "Hello?" She rapped against the wood smartly with her knuckles. "Anyone here? Hello?" Jeanneau rubbed his jaw, pained. "Maybe they're all gone, Noemi." She narrowed her eyes to slits and glanced down the corridor to the left.

"Or hiding."

"Or wondering what you could possibly want from my parents, and whether or not I could stop you." Noemi was completely caught off-guard: the muzzle of a pistol was pressed against her stomach. The girl stepped from behind the counter and slid the safety lock free from its catch. "Don't you dare," the girl hissed at Jeanneau, who had been inching his fingers towards a crystal phial by the table next to him.

Noemi's breath caught in her throat—the gauze wrapped around the girl's waist was completely unnecessary: she would've recognized her anyway. Her hair was dark, and she was a head shorter than Noemi. But her eyes—

"I don't know what you want from them, but we don't anything to do with the government's sub-devices, so you can take your—" she gasped as Noemi side-stepped and twisted her arm backward, pushing her with her free arm so her back collided with the edge of the counter. Noemi jabbed her elbow into the girl's ribs, Jeanneau ran forward to confiscate the pistol.

"How dare you!" the girl shrieked indignantly, "Unhand me! You bastards! My father will—" she gave a cry of anguish and flailed uselessly in Noemi's iron-grip. Her wrists were pinned behind her on the counter, Noemi's form pressed flush against hers.

"Calm, _cherie. _Stay calm. We aren't Enemies; we only thought you could help—"

The girl spat at her, "You thought wrong. Unhand me! How dare! You filthy bastards! You demons! I'll have your head, I swear it!" Noemi brushed the spittle from her face with her shoulder. "I suppose I deserved that one." The girl looked up at her, then. Noemi saw herself reflected in her eyes, the anger in them scorching her from the inside out. Then, just as quickly, the flame in them died.

And was replaced by genuine confusion.

"You—"she whispered softly, perplexed. "I've seen you before. I know I have." Noemi eased her grip on the girl's wrists slowly, "I won't hurt you. I've been telling you so, but you refuse to listen." She smiled at her and smoothed her blouse carefully, rolling up the cuffs to her elbows.

"Does it still hurt, from that day?" she asked softly, eyes sad. The girl's eyes widened in shock.

"Noemi?"

* * *

**A/N: Enter, Emily Fitch. **

**I shall update very soon, but I need motivation because, unfortunately, I've been lethargic the whole week. Hence, the laziness. Jesus Christ, these clearances. Also, I think I'm crushing a bit too hard on my English Lit professor. So I've been. Er. Distracted. But, a pleasant, welcome distraction nonetheless :)) Wait, if I've graduated, does that mean I can ask her out? **

**Anyway, you can shake me from my stupor: leave me a review please! They definitely inspire me to write faster for you people. Love you all. **

***nudges reader toward little white button* Go on. You know you want to. **

**-Guppy**


	5. Chapter 5

**There was a dance last week at the university, and the current love of my life was there—she smiled at me when I walked past her. Highlight of my night. For as long as I live, I'll think I'll remember that moment forever when I think of her—the way she looked that evening. **

**Odd way to start an author's note, I know, but I just had to put that out there. To get it off my chest, you know? :)) Anyway, I just **_**had **_**to write this, even if I should technically be revising for my board. But, because I love you all so much and I love Skins so much, and I love Naomily **_**far **_**too much—I decided to post this. Wee. The—er—**_**fifth**_** installment of Bastille for your reading pleasure.**

**This one's for jaxicen, who I've begun to miss, and to marsupial1974 who—I think—ships my English Prof and I, therefore I love her to bits. Hihi. And to all those guys who reviewed, you know I love you more than pie. ;) Well, maybe not **_**that **_**much, but its still pretty close, yeah?**

**Now, onward!**

* * *

_October 20, 1788_

_Sou Dussauts Apothe__caire, rue Lachamere_

* * *

_J'ai le vin mauvais—umsonst!—ah, pour vous plaire. __Pour vous plaire._

_Drinking wine makes me mean—in vain!—ah, to please you. To please you._

* * *

"Noemi," she whispered, almost reverently. But she was frightened; Noemi could hear it in the quiver of her voice. The girl ducked her head in an awkward half-bow and took a step back, "Forgive me. In my haste, I have committed unpardonable transgressions towards your person and your—"

"You acted like any normal human being would. You were suspicious; you had every right to assault me in these troubled times," Noemi smiled reassuringly. She tucked the pistol back into a holster at her belt and turned back to Jeanneau, "You alright?" He nodded uncertainly, "I am, but Noemi—" he gestured towards her arm. She glanced down at her wrist and frowned, "I don't remember having this at all."

Her left wrist was slit, from the base of the thumb to the heel of her palm, a thin scarlet line tracing down her skin. She tugged at the cuff of her blouse and bared it higher to examine the wound.

"I don't—"

"It was me," the girl furrowed her brow concernedly. She took Noemi's wrist in hers and turned it over gently. "When you pinned me behind the counter I chafed you with a pen knife." She slipped a thin blade from the sleeve of her dress and held it out. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Noemi shrugged. "I probably would've killed you if it was me." The girl's eyes widened. "I was joking," Noemi hastily amended. The girl smiled, albeit a little warily and took Noemi's hand in her own. "Let me fix it, at the very least." Jeanneau leaned in close to Noemi, "Let me stay outside, just in case Robert comes back. Or the _gendarmes _decide to make a surprise visit." She nodded in response and watched his retreating back until it disappeared behind the door. The girl had drifted back behind the counter, her arms laden with salves and bandages. She set them down cautiously on the countertop and gave Noemi a once-over, "I don't think the knife's rusted enough to cause tetanus, but an ounce of prevention—"

"—Is worth more than a pound of cure. Yes, thank you, mother," Noemi finished wryly. The girl pulled a stool closer and cradled Noemi's wrist in her lap. She took a wire thin rod and soaked the end in a clear solution. "Antiseptic," she supplied in response to Noemi's raised brows. "What are you doing, exactly—" Noemi gasped as the rod slid across the skin under her wrist and slit it, warm blood blossoming to the surface. The girl worked quickly, pressing a vial against the cut until a few drops of blood collected within the glass.

"I remember you, you know," the girl murmured softly, reaching behind her to daub at the wound with a pad of gauze. "From that day at the rue Saint-Severin. You cared enough to come to my aid, but I'm afraid my father sent you away." She tipped a phial of what looked like water onto the blood and watched it hiss and froth at the surface. The girl smiled to herself absently and proceeded to bandage Noemi's wrist.

"I gather that means there's no sign of an infection, then?" Noemi smirked, wincing as the girl tugged on the ends a little too tightly. "Where were you shot, exactly?" Noemi inquired gently, glancing down at the exposed bandages wrapped around the girl's waist. "It passed through my side, but it missed anything vital," the girl stood up and began clearing the countertop. "What did you want from my parents?" she inquired sharply, turning back to Noemi, her eyes hard.

"Assistance," Noemi answered quickly, trying to avoid any semblance of animosity. "Your mother showed me your underground hold, and the tunnel. Your brother's supplies are still in working condition, also, the services of the apothecary itself would not go amiss—"

"No," the girl cut in shortly. "We can't afford to get mixed up in any sort of trouble; you have no idea how hard my father worked to get us here. I'm sorry, Noemi, but the very idea of sending my family into an uncertainty as fragile as the Revolution is asking too much of me. And I barely even _know _you."

"Don't you?" Noemi's lips curled into a smile. The girl looked nonplussed, "No. I've never set foot in the barracks my entire life." Noemi shrugged and stood up, smoothing down her blouse. "Thank you," she said, sincerely, lifting her bandaged arm. "I know you want to distance your family and yourself from the Revolution, but I can't help but wonder why you'd show up to the rue Saint-Severin that day, knowing full well it was a rally of anarchists."

Blood rushed to the girl's face, tinting her cheeks a rosy pink. "It was my mother," she mumbled, face aflame. "She fancies herself a radical, a freethinker. She's not exactly fond of the Monarchy at Versailles. She convinced my father to attend the rally that day."

"If I remember correctly," Noemi began, a playful lilt to her voice. "I don't remember inquiring after your _mother's _reasons. Surely you could've chosen to stay at home if you didn't want to go?" The girl glanced downward and fingered the lace fringe of her cuffs. She hesitated briefly, almost as if she was going to say something, but thought better of it. She cleared her throat and when she lifted her eyes to meet Noemi's, they were defiant and determined. "My reasons are my own, thank you," she brushed past Noemi and closed the shutters on the windows.

"I'll thank you to leave me to my own devices." Noemi ducked her head and gave a sort of half-bow; she was clearly dismissed. "I thank you, once again," she reached behind her and pulled out a beret neatly tucked underneath her belt. "Shall I compensate?" she made as if to pull out her purse, but the girl shook her head. Noemi smiled warmly and pulled her beret on, sweeping her fair hair up and tucking it snugly into the cap. In the dim light, she could've been mistaken for a lad.

"I don't think anyone ever need know I was here—"

"_Amielle! _There's a tear in my dress that wasn't there _last night, _and I can't find the thread to—"

Noemi stood frozen in place as the girl's sister swept down the stairs. "_Amielle! _Why aren't you—" she came round the corner and turned to her sister angrily. "Did you fray this last night? Do you even care, really?" She froze then, suddenly aware of another presence in the room. She turned slowly to Noemi and inclined her head as if in greeting.

"Yes, can I help you with—something?" she asked warily, eyeing her tattered sleeves and trousers with evident disdain. Noemi shook her head and ducked her head to the latter as well. She lifted her eyes once more and caught the girl's eye: she winked.

The sister looked scandalized and brandished her fan like a saber, "How dare you, you insolent wretch! What lewd conduct you bear! My father will hear of this, you'll never be able to call on her again!"

Noemi spun on her heel and made for the door. She made it as far as the cobbles on the main road before she heard the tell-tale tinkle of the apothecary door opening again.

"Noemi!" she looked over her shoulder and glanced at the girl leaning on the wooden railings of the porch of the shop. Noemi tipped her beret, the corners of her lips lifting into an involuntary smile. The girl smiled back hesitantly and glanced about her nervously. Carefully, she bent down and set a bundle on the ground by the steps of the shop.

"Get it when I've gone," Noemi had to strain her ears to hear her say anything at all, but she nodded anyway. The girl turned about and made to go back inside. Noemi felt her throat close and cleared it, coughing unceremoniously into the back of her hand.

"_Cherie," _she called softly, her heart beating just a fraction faster than a moment ago when the latter turned. "_Cherie," _she began again, slower, tentatively.

"May I call on you again? Would you let me, if I came to ask for you?" the girl froze, her face paling almost immediately. The color drained from her cheeks, and in the fading light of the afternoon sun, she looked almost anemic. "Perhaps, it would not be wise. Highly," her voice caught, "Imprudent."

Noemi quirked a brow, ignoring the way her heart seemed to slip lower, lower, _lower. _She swallowed and felt its steady beat in her stomach. "You misunderstand," she called, a little louder. "I meant a filial visit, one of acquaintances and misjudged perceptions that need to meet halfway." The girl leaned against the door jamb and glanced at her, almost sadly. "My father would not let you. He knows you by face. Such a friendship is ill-fated."

"But even so," Noemi smiled widely. "A tryst would not go amiss, if you came to meet me of your own volition." The girl frowned, but Noemi did not miss the slow upward curl forming on her lips. "You're being very stubborn."

"You seem to inspire it in me," Noemi doffed her beret and waved it over her head. "Let me see you again. I don't have many friends outside the barracks. You would be the first, _cherie._ An honor, wouldn't you agree?"

"Oh, get along with you," the girl chuckled softly. "Go on then," she nodded, her eyes twinkling with mirth. She turned away and pushed the door of the apothecary open.

"_Cherie!" _Noemi cried, unabashedly loud. The girl flinched and raised a brow in her direction. "I have yet to call you anything."

The girl paused and seemed to lose herself in thought, her hand resting lightly on the brass handle of the door. After a beat or two, she glanced back at Noemi over shoulder.

"Amelie," she peered through the window next to the door frame and frowned slightly. "But my sister prefers Amielle, which, in and of itself, is not _entirely _amiss."

Noemi laughed, "Yes, but it isn't your name, really, is it?"

The girl's cheeks flushed with color and she closed the door behind her softly.

Noemi nearly ran to the steps after the door clicked shut and pulled open the bundle: bottles upon of bottles of antiseptic and antibiotics—enough for a wounded squad. She looked up at the door, broad and imposing before her, and gave a shaky salute; grateful beyond words.

* * *

"Father will hear of this," her sister hissed, jabbing her in the ribs with a fan. "To think his youngest daughter," she sniffed affectedly, "Consorting with ragout vagabonds who can't afford decent _shoes—" _Amelie strode past her and set about tidying the countertop, clearing it of spoilt bandages and spilt salves.

"Father wouldn't mind," she mumbled softly. "If he knew what they were like." Her sister snorted derisively, "The nerve of him then! So, he _does _mean to call on you again?" Amelie's brows drew together, confused. There was something wrong in the construction of her sister's phrasing—"You think it a _him?" _she asked incredulously bemused. Her sister frowned, perplexed, "What are you going on about? Him! That boy in the shop just now, in the cap and the tattered trousers! _He winked at you," _her sister seethed.

Amelie laughed delightedly, clapping her hands together and collapsing against the counter, her shoulders shaking with mirth. Her sister was not remotely amused, "You're a madwoman, Amielle. A madwoman. Will you see him again, then? What if father forbids you? How long have you been seeing him?"

"I've seen him twice, and I've talked to him just today," Amelie chuckled softly, recomposing herself. "_He,"— _she placed a great emphasis on the word, though it went unheeded by her sister— "Was rather nice."

"If he comes again, then," her sister pressed.

Amelie shrugged, "Then I'll see him again."

* * *

"It doesn't bother you at all?" Jeanneau asked, incredulous.

"What does?" Noemi laughed; she felt light-headed as they trudged back homeward bound. Jeanneau took the flask from her fingers and took a generous swig. He coughed as the liquid seared his throat, "That she doesn't remember you in the slightest? Despite," he wrinkled his nose in distaste as he swallowed, the sour tang of the alcohol coating his tongue. "Everything that happened, you know, before?" He gestured wildly, ignoring the heat pricking the back of his neck.

"You would think that someone as wise and as clever as a shop-girl would remember a few, simple details, eh?" Noemi chuckled luridly, leaning against Jeanneau to regain her balance as she stumbled over her feet. "But, no," she frowned; taking back the flask and downing a mouthful in one go. "She forgets," she stumbled and caught Jeanneau by the strap of his suspenders to steady herself. "And snubs you."

"Snubs _you, _you mean," Jeanneau chided, "She was awfully nice to me." Noemi scoffed, "Please. She threatened to tear you apart earlier. Now, nice. She was _wonderful _to _me._ "

"Then again," Jeanneau mumbled to himself, not seeming to have heard her. "Who could blame her? That was quite awhile ago: we were different people then, I would imagine. Also, you were not exactly acquaintances for you to make a definite impression, and perhaps she was just as inebriated as we are—"

"We," Noemi held up a finger reprovingly, wagging it in front of his face. "Are not—" she hiccupped, "—Inebriated. Not in the _slightest."_

"No?"

"No."

"Okay."

Jeanneau turned to look at her and brushed her hair back from forehead.

He smoothed the creases at her shoulder and stepped back to admire his work. "Pretty as a picture. You look very nice; I like your new thread-cuffs. _Very _shiny, very," he swayed on his feet unsteadily, "_Stylish." _

Noemi grinned sheepishly, "Is it now? You think she noticed?" She staggered forward and retched by the road side.

"_Not inebriated," _she muttered sleepily.

"Not in the _slightest."_

* * *

**I couldn't help sneaking in some Naomily fluff in there to tide you over for the next couple of days. You know, earlier today I was re-reading Crime and Punishment after re-watching Anna Karenina and I thought, **_**'Ho-lee-crap-sticks, how awesome would it be if someone made an Imperial Russia-themed Skins, Naomily-centric?' **_

**Now if only someone would take the prompt and write -_- **

**Anyways, thanks again for the reviews, follows—both on Twitter and here. ;) I'm really happy you're enjoying things so far. Leave me a note, yeah? A little review, maybe? You know I love it when you guys do :") **

**Go on, don't be shy. Make my day. ;)**

**-Guppy**


	6. Chapter 6

_October 25, 1788_

_Aperture 1735, Place Saint-Michel_

_No. 17, Second Loft_

* * *

_Il était une fois._

_Once upon a time._

* * *

She watched Jacques sink into a languid stupor, day in and day out; eyes glazed and unfocused, drifting in and out of consciousness at will. It was a side-effect of the tonic, his physician—Garvais—had said, only, it wasn't quite that. Nobody knew about Elizabeth, much less, his broken heart.

_Then again, _she thought, somberly. _Nobody knew about Frederic _and _Elizabeth, either._

She stepped into his room and stood by the opposite end of the bed. He had not turned to acknowledge her presence though he had heard her walk in. She fiddled with the cuffs of her blouse for a moment, and tried, in vain, to compose herself in his presence to deliver the news he would no doubt wish to hear, however terrible.

"Prouvaire is dead, he passed this morning in the infirmary. His neck wound became infected, there was nothing we could do to alleviate his suffering," she faltered and cleared her throat. "And Lafayette was captured. Troubadour—" she trailed off hesitantly. "Troubadour is missing. But we received a commission from the _gendarmes _the other day. They asked us for our unconditional surrender, in exchange for his life. I could not give it to them. He is at their mercy, now; although there is no doubt in my heart that they have killed him already. The men are losing heart—they fear the _coquers _who stand guard outside the barracks at the Rivoli, day in and day out, their numbers ever-increasing."

He made no sound to indicate he heard her meagre report. She crawled across the cot over to his place, where he sat perched at the edge, forehead pressed to the wooden sill of his sole window.

She took his hand in hers tightly and squeezed gently, "What troubles you so, _m'sieur?_"

His brows lifted and the corner of his mouth twitched, but he made no move to turn to her. He squeezed back, however, and heaved a soft sigh. "_Non. _I don't want to talk about this now, Noemi. There is no place for grief in war—"

"But there will _always _be a time to grieve with friends. You're with one now," she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, drawing back slightly when he winced. "Speak, Jacques. It _will _help."

He turned in her embrace and they sat there for a moment, gazing at each other wordlessly. A beat later, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers; softly, gently, a flutter of pressure—and pulled back. She lifted a hand and brushed the scant hairs drifting across his brow before tangling her fingers in the finer strands at the back of his neck; she kissed him again—firmer, deeper. He fell backward onto the cot, and pulled her on top of him, such that she lay with her head on his chest. He brushed his lips along the top of her head and sighed contentedly. She began to cry. It wasn't often that she did, but during the rare occasions when her feelings were irrepressibly bursting at the seams, he was the only who ever saw her tears.

"I'm frightened, Jacques," she whimpered, sniffling into the back of her hand to stifle the sound.

"Don't be, princess," he whispered, lifting her hand and brushing a kiss to her knuckles, her fingertips. "Everything will sort itself out in the end, believe me. Versailles will fall, and all of France will have been saved—by our own hands, and no less. And you and I, well," he pulled her tighter against his chest. "We'll live until the next age. We'll throw the Queen from the balcony, and you'll have free reign over everything she owns. You'll have handmaids and couriers and butlers and knights—"

"—And wear fancy dresses trimmed with lace," she scoffed disdainfully.

"—And eat lavish feasts! And ride to balls and dances on your pure-bred stallions—"

"—The world will fall at my feet in admiration and worship; there'll be scores of thousands of suitors asking for my hand—"

"—And you'll scorn them all, turn them away empty-handed and feeling decidedly more foolish, because you prefer mistresses—"

"—Which there is no shortage of in all of Europe! And the Queen will drag her crumpled form from off the floor to smother me with her passionate love—"

"—But you'll spurn her advances with a brush of your hand, because you prefer the gentle caress of an _apothecaire's _apprentice."

She punched his shoulder without any qualms, laughing aloud when he swore in obvious pain. "And the sad irony of it all lies in the fact that you were provoked by my quiet declaration of the truth. How are _you _any better than the King, who in all his grand and utter glory, cannot spare the population a modicum of truth regarding the goings-on of the Nation?" he rubbed his shoulder briskly, wincing every now then at the irregular stabs of pain.

She shrugged and sat up, smoothing down the creases of her blouse, "He denies us the truth; I deny your insinuations, which—if I may say so—have no definite basis on fact. I've only met her _once."_

He jabbed a finger in her direction accusingly, "But you mean to see her again!"

"She saved your life! You would do well to acknowledge your debt to her by being _civil," _she strode over to the window and pulled back her hair in a loose knot. Before her, the quiet cobbles of the back streets of Paris wound about the Seine like a labyrinthine serpent. She smiled, making out the conspicuous rust-colored hue of a run-down building a few miles further south.

"But, yes. I _do mean _to see her again."

* * *

"Through here!" she hissed, slamming Noemi back harshly against the brick wall. She grasped the clasp by Noemi's throat and dragged her down the back alley, crouching low behind a stack of wooden crates.

Robert emerged from the apothecary a moment later. He scuffed his boots against the steps of the shop before setting off down the street. The woman breathed an audible sigh of relief and sagged against the wall.

"I don't like hiding things from him," she whimpered quietly, peering at his retreating form through the slats of a crate. "Particularly things connected to the Monarchy; to the Revolution. He resents you still, for playing a hand in harming my daughter. What possessed you to come here, alone and unaided, in plain sight?" she asked incredulously.

"My friend might need more than the tonic, _madame. _I came here to procure fresh stock in the form of salves and bandages. My men have nearly used them all up," Noemi replied quietly, brushing down her trousers.

"How is he?" the woman asked concernedly. "Did it help him?"

"Quite so," Noemi smiled reassuringly, "He is recovering marginally, day by day. We don't know yet, however, if the damage has affected his ability to walk. His physician assures us his full recovery in a month."

"Oh, that's wonderful," the woman smiled. "Through here, then." She pushed Noemi through the back door and shut it hastily behind her. "Right," she said, slightly out of breath. She took in Noemi's disheveled state, her matted hair, and frowned. "Have you had anything to eat, love?"

Noemi stroked a finger down her gaunt cheeks, pale with exhaustion. "Not really, no," she admitted ashamedly.

The woman clucked her tongue and pulled her to her feet, "Not here, I think." She steered them into the kitchen, where a fire fizzled weakly in the lone grate. "Right, then. Off these go." She tugged on the frayed ends of Noemi's blouse and pulled it off her head, ignoring Noemi's violent cries of protest.

"What are you doing?" Noemi gasped, breathless in her horror as she tried to shield her modesty. The woman was the stoic image of calm in comparison, the paragon of indifference.

"These as well," Noemi stumbled backwards and gave a loud shout of protest when her back hit the edge of the mantelpiece: her trousers were pulled down unceremoniously, hanging loosely at the ankles.

"Do you mean to ruin and degrade me in every way?" she growled, attempting to slide her trousers back in place with one hand, while the other was preoccupied with covering her from the neck down with her blouse.

"I have yet to meet anyone who enjoys taking baths fully-clothed, _cherie._ Unless, of course, _you _do?" the woman raised a brow, mock curiously. Noemi's brows creased together in confusion. "Go on," the woman nodded her head towards a copper tub by the fireplace. "My youngest filled it just moments ago for her use, but I think you need it more. I'll set the screen in place, so you won't have to worry about your privacy."

Noemi glanced at the tub, steam wafting in long, curling threads across the water's surface. It was tempting, to say the least. "But what of your husband, Robert? Should he come and find a Revolutionary in his wife's kitchen? In a _bath, _to boot?"

"Oh," she frowned thoughtfully. "He won't come back until later this evening; he has business up at Bordeux. So, you can take your time in peace. I'll have supper ready while you're in there."

She rounded the corner and went on through the hallway. Noemi heard the stairs creak under her weight; she paced cautiously over to the copper tub and dipped a finger into it curiously. It was deliciously warm. She hastily yanked the screen around it before stepping into the water and sighing gratuitously into the air at the contact. She'd missed this sorely: the feel of comfort and a home. Safety. She submerged her head into the water, working the knotted threads of her hair loose with trembling fingers. There were raised voices drifting from the rafters, she glanced up worriedly before scooting further back, letting her head rest on the rim.

She drifted off in moments.

* * *

She woke to the sound of laughter from behind the screen, and the tell-tale scent of burnt bread. She stretched languorously beneath the cooling water and stifled a yawn.

"See to it, then," she'd heard the woman say, and a chair scrape back. Suddenly, there was a gentle rapping on the screen's wooden frame.

"I came to see if you were finished, mother says supper's ready. I've brought you a towel, if you'd like it," a hand shot out from behind the screen and held out a towel in her direction awkwardly. It amused her greatly.

"I'm sorry I stole your bath," she called out playfully. Amelie wrenched open the screen and slipped through abruptly; they stared at each other, in equal parts horror and amusement.

_"Noemi?" _she hissed, horrified. "What are you _doing _here? Does my mother know you're here?" Her cheeks flushed a delicate shade of crimson and she turned her head, ashamedly, at the latter's current state of undress.

"Obviously," Noemi smirked, thoroughly at ease. "I don't make it a point to break in other people's houses for baths. I'm sorry to disappoint, but I _am _a bit classier than that."

"When my mother said we had guests, I didn't think she meant student rebels without decorum and a terrible sense of charm," she muttered hotly under breath. "My father could catch you here at any moment, and that'd be the end of _you!"_

"You think I'm charming?" Noemi raised a brow. Amelie flushed darker and sighed through her teeth, thoroughly exasperated.

"Look," Noemi smiled kindly. "There's no need to worry. I just came by to get more supplies for my men. And to see you." She added hesitantly, a bit later, her heart beginning to pace an irregular, frenetic rhythm. Amelie turned back to look at her, her cheeks a vibrant shade of red.

"Get along with you," she whispered, not unkindly. She leaned forward and dipped a finger into the water, "I think you ought to step out, now. You'll catch a cold otherwise." She fluttered the towel open and turned her head when Noemi stood up. She gasped then, when she felt fingers wet with bath water wrap around hers, guiding her hands around a slim waist, so that she wrapped the towel around her properly.

"Much better," Noemi grinned, tucking the end of the towel under her arm. "You wouldn't happen to have my clothes about you, now, would you?"

"Mother burned your old ones, I think. She found them too distasteful," Amelie frowned. "But, these are father's. They'll fit you well enough, I think. You're about as tall as he is, after all." She thrust a bundle of clothes at Noemi, and threw a beret on top of the pile. "I'll leave you to it."

She turned her back to Noemi and slipped out of the screen, slid the partition shut behind her.

Tried to ignore her heart, beating violently against her chest.

* * *

Noemi tore hungrily into her supper, polishing off her third loaf with a lack of finesse that Amelie found amusing.

"They don't feed you half as well as you'd like down at the barracks, do they?" she bit her lip to stifle a laugh. She pushed her own untouched plate towards her, smiling when Noemi began to pull apart slices of cured meat from her portion without a second thought.

"_Amelie!" _her mother chastised hastily. "That isn't _polite—"_

"She's right, though," Noemi muttered through a mouthful. "Every little bit—every solitary scrap—goes to the entire cavalry, without question. Somebody sponsors you a whole ham. How do you split it into equal shares?" she gestured vaguely with her fork. "You turn it into _soup. _You raid an abandoned market and find a head of lettuce? Turn it into soup! There are men who need that kind of sustenance more than you do. The fishmonger's pity gets you an entire _halibut—putain, _you turn it into soup. Water it down. Share it with the whole. Damn. Lot," she slammed her cup down on the table unceremoniously.

"Well, luckily for you, the only time mother ever makes _anything _into soup is when we have leftovers from three nights ago; you know, bits and pieces of things that can't get by, on their own. That doesn't happen as often as it sounds, honestly. So, really, there's no reason for you to hesitate. You're safe, here. She'll see you well-fed, rest assured. She thinks it her life's purpose—_clothe the naked and feed the hungry, _and all that," Amelie added cheerily and sliced a hefty amount of cheese from the round-loaf. "Bree?" she asked mock-conversationally; she speared it through the end of a carving knife and held it out to her.

"Noemi, actually," she grumbled quietly, reaching out to take it. "Thank you, I—"

The front door slammed open and they froze simultaneously. Noemi's eyes darted to the woman beside her—she'd paled, her hands gripping the edge of the table lightly. Amelie sat trembling and frigid in place, her face a stony mask of defiance. She glanced down at the table and briefly considered hiding beneath it, but immediately decided against it. She was anything _but_ a coward: she slid her hand into the heft of her belt and gripped the leather shaft of her hand-blade.

"_Oh, la la! _Where _is _everyone? Amielle? _Maman?" _

Amelie and her mother sighed in relief, postures relaxing almost immediately. Amelie passed a shaky hand over brow, "_Mon dieu, _Catherine! I thought you were—" she trailed off, her voice wavering. "Through here." Suddenly, she glanced at Noemi with wide-eyes, as if suddenly remembering _she _was here and that _they'd _met before. She leapt up and caught Noemi's sleeve, tried to shove her unceremoniously beneath the table. Noemi squeaked and struggled against her grip, adamantly refusing to submit to her coercion.

"_Maman, _I was at the Halles this morning. Desjardins wanted to know when the next shipment for—" she rounded the corner and stopped short at the sight before her. Her mouth fell open and she sagged against the wooden post. Amelie closed her eyes, defeated, and sighed through her teeth.

"Catherine, _please—"_

"You!" Catherine shrieked indignantly at Noemi. She gathered her skirts and whipped the carving knife off the counter. She brandished it before her with a flourish and mimed a jab at Noemi's chest. Her mother cried out loud and skirted around the table towards her in a futile attempt to placate her outburst, but she would not be calmed. "You again! How dare you come here, attempt to accost my sister! Impose upon my _mother!" _Her eyes widened comically as she took in Noemi's trousers, _"Dare _to wear my father's clothes in his own house! I won't stand for this! I won't let you! Out!" she cried, slashing the air before her in blind fury. _"Out!"_

Noemi backed up slowly, her hands raised in a gesture of surrender. Amelie rolled her eyes, thoroughly bemused at her sister's theatrics. "Enough, Catherine," she sounded bored, as if this was a regular source of paltry night-time entertainment in their household. _"Maman _let her in—"

Catherine whirled around and glared at her mother furiously, "_Maman! _How many times does father have to tell you? No more vagrants in this house! No more vermin! No more leeches! No more scum from the southern slums!" she hissed angrily. "We do _not _run a charity house!"

"How dare you?" Amelie drew herself up to her full height—_which didn't amount to much_, Noemi noted. _But still—_"Noemi saved my life! If it wasn't for—"

Catherine quickly took her hands in hers and examined them carefully, turning them over gingerly in her fingers as she looked them over. "Has he hurt you, Amielle?" she asked concernedly. "Has he hurt you in any way? Did he degrade you? Tell me," she urged, her voice low and demanding. "Tell me everything, and I'll make him suffer—"

"_He?" _Noemi interjected, completely nonplussed. Amelie glanced at her and bit her lip guiltily.

"Sorry," she began apologetically. "I should've corrected her the first time, but, I suppose I just found it amusing that someone of my sister's calibre would mistake you of all people."

Catherine's hardened gaze darted between them, "What are you on about, Amielle? _Maman! _Send this boy out at once! Make him turn back up the street! Better yet, leave him to father!" she clapped her hands excitedly.

Noemi's frown deepened, her brows creasing together. She swept the beret off her head, her long, fair hair tumbling down to her shoulders. Catherine gasped in recognition. "I fear no living man. Therefore, your threats are of little concern to me. Clearly, this house is no longer open to me. Thank you for your hospitality," she nodded to the woman and glanced at Amelie.

"Oh, for crying out loud. Don't go," Amelie pinched the bridge of her nose. "Catherine, you know her well. You _them _well. Noemi, this is my sister, Catherine. Catherine, Noemi, the flame of the Revolution. Hail, and well met," she added sarcastically. Catherine opened and closed her mouth, unable to form a coherent sentence in light of her sudden epiphany.

"I—I had no idea—I didn't mean to—I never meant to be so rude—If I had known—I would've—"

"Right, well. _Maman, _it seems hunger has temporarily impeded her faculties of rational thinking. I think it's best we get some air," she brushed past her sister and tugged on Noemi's sleeve, leading her out to the front porch.

"That was certainly…Interesting," Noemi smirked. She folded her arms and leaned against the wooden railing.

"I thought she was going to run you through with a bread knife!" Amelie rolled her sleeves up self-consciously. "I'm sorry, I didn't think she'd be so rude."

"It's fine," Noemi waved her off dismissively. "She only acted out of concern for you."

"Concern?" she snorted derisively, her eyes sad. "Her concern is misplaced. As is my father's." Her features hardened and she reached out to touch the tail-end of Noemi's blouse. "I want to help you," she whispered softly. "I long to see a liberated France. I think," she swallowed thickly. "I think you're our best bet, yet. You stand a chance, Noemi. Danton was right to place his faith in you."

"To see you hurt, though," Noemi's gaze clouded over as they sought her eyes. She lifted a hand and brushed her fingers delicately against her cheek. Amelie closed her eyes at the touch, turned her head so her cheek pressed against a warm palm. "Even a Liberated France would not be worth the pain you'd bring me, should I see you hurt at my expense. No, it is enough to see you well and whole. Happy." Amelie's eyes flickered open, her expression soft.

"We've met before," it was not a question. She touched her forehead to Noemi's and twined their fingers together. "In another lifetime. Another age. I remember, I think. I remembered today. Your touch, there." She squeezed her fingers once, ran her thumb along calloused knuckles.

"Do you?" Noemi whispered softly. "We have, you and I. Not too long ago. Fate, it seems, has brought you to me again for a reason. I'd like to find out what it is, if you'd let me."

"Help me remember," Amelie pleaded helplessly, pulling in vain at their joined hands.

"Soon," Noemi mused thoughtfully, a smile curling the corners of her lips. She glanced behind Amelie and snorted softly.

"_Noemi!" _a voice hissed, none-too-loudly in the dark. Amelie whipped around sharply, fear forcing her to shrink back against Noemi's arms which tightened around her protectively.

Suddenly, a mop of tousled dark hair popped out from beneath the porch, followed closely by a dusty, lime-green beret atop a soot-stained forehead. Two pairs of curious eyes peeped out at them a moment later. Amelie flinched and gave a start.

"Honestly now," Noemi chided. "You're scaring her. Front and center, if you'd please." They swung themselves over the railing and clambered with ease onto the porch. Frederic dusted off his trousers and Jeanneau pulled his cap off to wipe the grime from his face.

Frederic grinned at them and straightened his blouse as best he could, "Pleased to meet you, _cherie! _She may have failed to mention us, but she'd be lost without our unfailing support and affection—Yours truly is Frederic, brute-force-extraordinaire, and this is Jeanneau, the brains of the Revolution. At your service," he held out a grime-coated hand to shake hers, but thought better of it. Jeanneau waved cheerily beside him and grinned amiably.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Amelie's voice wavered uncertainly. "You're friends of Noemi's?" her gaze flickered from one to the other, studying them.

"The closest," Jeanneau winked. He turned to Noemi seriously, then, and bit the inside of his cheek. "I'm afraid I have to break up this little tryst, however. I hope you pardon the interruption, _cherie, _but it's our friend, Jacques—"

"What?" Noemi asked sharply, disentangling herself from Amelie's arms and stepping towards them. "What's wrong with him?"

"His fever, it's skyrocketed. It refused to break all afternoon, the poultice might have agitated the wound further. Garvais is afraid it might have infected the area completely," Frederic wrung his cap in his hands, thoroughly agitated. "We don't know what to do."

"I might," Amelie piped up. Noemi turned back to look at her, her frown deepening at the enthusiasm in her tone.

"No," she replied flatly. "You can't get afford to get caught in our affairs. Your father might come home at any minute."

"I want to help!" Amelie protested. "You _know _I can—"

"You know this isn't the issue here!"

"Noemi," Jeanneau warned. "We have to get going, quickly." He glanced back at Amelie and shrugged apologetically, "Perhaps another time, _cherie."_

"Lovely meeting you!" Frederic called out. He bounded forward and looped an arm through Noemi's, Jeanneau holding onto her other. They bundled her between them and set off down the cobbled streets. Amelie rushed forward and gripped the porch banister.

"Will I see you again?" she cried. Noemi swivelled around with difficulty to look at her. She opened her mouth to speak, but Frederic cut her off.

"There's a feast, _cherie! _A fortnight from now, down at the old Court of Miracles. There'll be dancing and music and drink and gypsies and—"

"You should come!" Jeanneau called. "We never miss it. You'll like it, no doubt. A feast for the senses, that."

Amelie looked uncomfortable at the mention of gypsies, but nodded anyway. Noemi broke out into smiles, "I'll come by, then. Steal you away, if you'd like. No one has to know. The night shields those who work under her wings."

"I'll wait for you, then," color crept into her cheeks. "Stay safe!"

Noemi waved.

* * *

Settled warmly against the cushions of the cab, Frederic exhaled loudly in relief. Beside him, Jeanneau traced patterns on the condensation of the window quietly.

"So," he broke the silence, shared a conspiratorial glance with Jeanneau. "What was all that earlier, at her porch? You two looked all," he grinned and raised a brow. "Cozied up."

Noemi rolled her eyes, "Get along with you. Nothing's going on."

"Really? It didn't seem like it," Jeanneau stifled a laugh when she fixed him with a glare.

"She's a _friend,_" she muttered exasperatedly. "And, mind you. _You _invited her to the Old Court, not me. If anything, I'd say _you _liked her."

"We do!" Frederic said earnestly. "She seems like a well-to-do girl, very poised, very hospitable. It doesn't hurt that she's certainly easy on the eyes as well—" he spat feathers out of his mouth and spluttered; Noemi had thrown her throw-pillow at his face unceremoniously.

The floor rattled beneath them as the cab made its way past the bridge. They sat in silence for a few moments, save for the occasional sneeze from Frederic.

"She seems to remember me, though," Noemi mused softly, glancing at Jeanneau. "Not all of it, but the memory itself is there."

"Be careful, though, Noemi," Frederic said darkly. "Don't drag her in too far." He glanced away and she knew his thoughts had drifted back to Elizabeth.

There was nothing else to say, after that.

* * *

**I cannot believe I haven't updated this in so long, sweet Christ. Oh, ladies. Things'll get pretty interesting here on out, I can promise you. So, brace yourselves because, you forget, we have yet to actually drag Noemi's sorry, bedraggled, weather-beaten trousers onto modern London Town's busy, cobbled streets. So, stick around!**

**This one's for Clyde and Marci. Thank you, darlings, for sticking around. Much love! x**

**Let me know you dropped by! Anyone still reading this?**

**- Guppy x**


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